To Serve And Defend Part 1: The Quick And The Dead
by Tanthalas1
Summary: A series of stories dealing with Han Solo's days in the Imperial Navy. This brief chapter sets the stage. Feedback welcome.


In a deep space battle, you were either quick or dead.  
  
Expolosions blossomed in zero g like flowers. Silent impacts never-the-less shook the cosmos. The tactical net was one long static burst of instructions, comm-speak, and the screams and anguished grunts of dying men.  
  
The Imperial Star Destroyer Redeemer moved across the star feild. Dappled by the far-flung moons of Reglos IV, its primary batteries thundered at the the three medium cruisers, who were trying to disengage long enough to make a jump to hyperspace.  
  
It didn't matter to the captains of the Kryax pirate group that they would be abandoning their squadrons of Z-95 Headhunters who were valiantly holding back the Redeemer's TIE fighter compliments. It was part of their code, the same code which drove them to loot and rapine the trade routes of the Mid and Outer Rims. Clan survival was everything.  
  
In the cockpit of his Fleet Sienar Systems model 498 TIE, Lieutenant Han Solo gritted his jaws and blasted a Headhunter to scrap.  
  
The young Imperial pilot then cut away, avoiding a near hit from a proton torpedo that had his whole bad karma written all over it. Some of the men in his squadron whispered that Solo had Jedi reflexes. It was the only way to explain his prowess in the cockit. Actually, Solo was just that good. Force heightened senses would have only served to make him unstoppable. Not that he believed in that old mystic mumbo jumbo. No mystical energy feild controlled his destiny. After all, look what finally became of the Jedi.  
  
He hated the helmet, the death's head mask of the TIE pilot. It was fearsome looking and necessary since the TIES did not possess shipboard life support capabilities... yet it also played hell with his peripheral vision. The same could be said about the fighter's forward observation bay and transparasteel windows aligning the gang-hatch. Due to these constraints, Solo and his fellow fighters had to rely mostly on shipboard sensors for a full range of sight.  
  
A TIE pilot had to develop quickly if he was expected to survive. Lightly armored, sacraficing shields for speed, The TIE's were often reffered to as "coffins" by the men and women of the Imperial Navy. One lapse, one slip, and you were so much space dust. Fighter pilots who survived five engagements were granted ace status. Solo was one of these pilots.  
  
He didn't mind flying the Coffin. Oh, there was much room for improvement, but the Imperial Navy's protests to the Senate fell on deaf ears. The Empire's armed forces had risen from the ashes of the Old Republic reconstructed around the Tarkin Doctrine of Force. The Empire won its battles through power and sheer numbers. Nothing else was necessary.  
  
There was an enormous part of Solo who enjoyed relying on his wits, his cunning, to survive. He knew he was the best fraggin' pilot in the Fleet. He had rose from Third Class Lieutenant to Lieutenant with remarkable speed, despite his occasional lapse in disciplne.   
  
That wasn't bad for an orphan boy from Corellia who had been poorly educated and who had barely passed his Academy entrance exams.  
  
"Han, watch out!" The familar voice blasting through his commlink roused Solo. His threat indicators went haywire indicating that one of the pirates had him in target-lock. Solo went evasive, cursing under his breath. He wouldn't live to see his admiral pips if he zoned out like that during a battle again. He choked it up to too much Nar Shaddan bootleg ale the night before.  
  
Splashs of blaster fire surrounded Solo, as he spun his ship into a top velocity dance. The Z-95 was glued to him pretty good. Its pilot smelled blood.  
  
"Hold on, Han," the familar voice called out again. "I'm on him."  
  
Turns out, it didn't matter. Solo slammed on his breaks, and the Z-95 screamed past him, right into his crosshairs. Solo dispatched the pilot as his wingmate, Jev Daneth pulled out to keep from colliding with his ion emmiter.  
  
"Solo!" he shouted, not unkindly. "You crazy Tiberian Bat!"  
  
Solo chuckled. "Sorry, Jev. I couldn't spend all day waiting on your fat backside."  
  
"Skull 5 and 6 cut the chatter!" Commander Balock admonished. "We're engaged, damn it!"  
  
"Like I didn't notice," Solo whispered, coming to grips with another Z-95.  
  
"What was that, Solo?"  
  
"Aye-aye, Sir!" Solo responded crisply, drilling his third kill for the day. The battle was starting to thin out. Soon, the TIE squadron would be able to join the Redeemer's assult on the main ships.  
  
It was something that Solo didn't enjoy doing. The old dreadnoughts just didn't have the deffensive capabilities to deal with the agile Coffins. It was like shooting at drowsy Hutts. Solo perffered a little challenge from his quarry.  
  
Suddenly, one of the pirate ships exploded with a blinding detonation. Debris rained into the dogfight.  
  
"Skull wing, evasive manuvers, NOW!" Balock screamed.  
  
Balock didn't have to tell Solo twice. He dodged a chunk of waste the size of a Corellian Corvette. It did manage to take down a few of the Skull fighters. Solo hoped they weren't anyone he knew well. Getting scratched by space garbage was not a good way to have your number come up.  
  
Solo figured the pirates would fight to the death. He was suprised when the remaining ships and fighters, heavily damaged and suffering heavy casulties, surrendered.  
  
Skull Team go their recall beacon and flew back to the redeemer. 


End file.
